


Totemic

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Community: au_bingo, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlsson had hired them to discover what his fucking <i>totem animal</i> was.</p><p>("Does he mean spirit animal?" Arthur'd said irritably. "Totem's kind of ... loaded." Eames had just shrugged and told him the customer was always right, a lie of such monstrous magnitude that Arthur'd changed the subject.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Totemic

The hiatus in Arthur's career begins the day that he's bitten. He comes up with his hand already splayed over where the bite just was; he's gritting his teeth against pain that's gone wherever dead dreams go, and his skin (he flicks a glance down as he slides the needle out of the vein) is unbroken, unbleeding, uninfected.

"Bloody psycho," says Eames, casting a disparaging look at the mark. ... No, they have to call them 'clients' now, because according to Ariadne 'mark' screams illegality and this New Age nonsense is many things but illegal isn't one of them. Carlsson, the _client_ , is a big husky blond guy, and he hired Eames and Arthur (actually just Eames, who accepted the job on both their behalves before he told Arthur what was involved), to discover what his fucking _totem animal_ was.

("Does he mean spirit animal?" Arthur'd said irritably. "Totem's kind of … loaded." Eames had just shrugged and told him the customer was always right, a lie of such monstrous magnitude that Arthur'd changed the subject.)

Arthur is now able to state, definitely and with extreme prejudice, that Carlsson's totem animal -- what is this, did Danes even _have_ totem animals? -- is a timber wolf. A wolf that's not afraid of people. A wolf that trotted right up to Arthur, there in the dim pine forest of the dream, and damn near took his left hand off before Eames drove it off with shouts and blows.

"You tell him," says Arthur. "Gonna get some air."

He steals Eames' cigarettes on his way out, and he's smoked two before Eames joins him on the rust-streaked fire escape.

"He's ecstatic," reports Eames. "He's always hoped it'd be a wolf."

"Asshole," grumbles Arthur. His arm still aches, never mind that Carlsson's dream-wolf never touched his real body. "Tell him it's gonna come after him one night."

* * *

And he'd have forgetten about Carlsson well before he'd spent the guy's money, except for what happens the next time he goes under. Luckily it's only him and Eames, checking out one of Ariadne's levels: Arthur's seen the model and Eames has helped with some of the sketches, but they're the first to explore it in three dimensions.

Or they would be, except --

"You are fucking kidding me," says Eames. Arthur can see white all around the blue-grey-green pupils of his eyes. "You have got to -- Arthur, you -- that _is_ you, I take it?"

There's something wrong with Arthur's sensorium: the colours of the dream are deep and bright and wrong, and he can smell Eames' cologne/deodorant/sweat/cigarettes/toothpaste much more than is usual, or for that matter pleasant.

(The skin-smell's okay. Good, even. Better than-- It's the chemicals that tickle.)

When he tries to say Eames' name, what comes out is a high-pitched whine.

Also, Eames is too high up, looming over Arthur, who finds himself snarling.

Also-also-also _everything_ , a million details sketched in scent and sight and sound, the taste of salt and fear in the air, the burnt-metal of a city street, the --

"We can't possibly be expected to work like this," says Eames, and he's got a gun in his hand, and Arthur wants to leap at him and bear him down but actually he's got a goddamned point.

* * *

So Arthur's a wolf every time he dreams, now. Eames concocted some excuse about a course of medication that was contraindicted for use with somnacin . Arthur has a strong suspicion that Ariadne now thinks he's suffering from some sordid STI, but at least he's excused from field-work with the rest of them. Temporarily. Half his work's always been in the waking world, anyway, research and prep and nosing out secrets: he does all that, still, and more, and tries not to whine about how much he misses the dreamshare.

And whenever he has an hour to spare, he spends it tracking Carlsson. The guy can't hide forever. Nobody can stay hidden from Arthur, not when he wants to find them this badly.

And while he's working on fixing the problem -- it's not a fucking _curse_ , he doesn't believe in that shit -- and trying to kick his own mind into realising how totally stupid it is to be a wolf in dreams because some guy's freaky spirit-wolf bit him … while he's waiting for the chase to end and life to resume, he talks to Eames. Tells him what it's like to be a wolf; tells him about the scent of skin, the crunch of bone, the iron savour of blood, the nameless colours, the subtle sound of prey. (Doesn't tell him, yet, about the scent of Eames himself, or the weight of Eames' hand on the wolf's head; about tasting the smell of him, or the glow of even human eyes at night, or that hitch he sometimes hears in Eames' breath.) Tells him everything; tells him enough that the two of them can race for miles through snowy forests stark with the light of a huge full silver moon.

-end-


End file.
